


memoriam

by thegreatpumpkin



Series: these many years [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Reimbodiment fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:29:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4230612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some tumblr prompts that turned into Glorfindel/Ecthelion feelbombs. Memories both painful and pleasant—and Glorfindel, get a damn hair tie already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	memoriam

**Author's Note:**

> These are slightly apocryphal--while they're compliant with the rest of the stories in _these many years_ , they are NOT compliant with The Right Word, which is set in the same universe. So I guess that makes this Shrödinger's fic.

_**Prompt:** Leave a “ **Break Me** ” in my ask, and I will write an angsty drabble.  
(This one is a traditional drabble, i.e. exactly 100 words)_

* * *

No one ever understood: it wasn’t a mistake.

Not carelessness; _certainly_ not vanity.

Ecthelion was the last person to bind his hair. It had been hastily done; the braids unravelled mere hours later. Glorfindel left them, snarling at anyone who would fix them.

It wasn’t a mistake; it was an inside joke. _Tie that hair up. You’re not a bard._

It wasn’t a mistake; it was a howl of grief. Had he survived, he’d have shorn it all, shaved it to the scalp; but there was no time.

It wasn’t a mistake; it was his undoing, and he embraced it.

* * *

 

_**Prompt** : Glorfindel/Ecthelion. Leave a “ **Remember Me** ” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about one character trying to get another to remember them._

* * *

It was deeply irritating, the way the Vanya seemed to be immune to his tactics.

Ecthelion had never had any trouble getting what he wanted. He was good at reading people, at knowing what buttons to push. Besides, he was handsome, and sharply clever, and it seemed he’d been something of a hero in his first incarnation—which never hurt.

It should have been easy for him to befriend the Vanya; and from there, even easier to charm that enchantingly tall golden creature into his bed. He was good at making friends; people liked him. But he could not make any headway here.

When he’d asked for his name, the elf had shrugged and turned away, smiling slightly. “Figure it out.” At first Ecthelion thought it was part of a game, a sort of playing hard-to-get, but there was no chase afterwards despite his willingness to play. It was only by some very undignified eavesdropping that he was able to get the name at all— _Glorfindel_.

 _Glorfindel_.

Glorfindel was polite enough, if not exactly warm. When they crossed paths, he would greet Ecthelion by name in a queer, searching tone, and give him a long, assessing look. But whatever he was looking for, he never found it. He would make impersonal small talk about flutes or fountains or flowers, looking increasingly more pained, until finally Ecthelion would give up and leave him be. He had never been treated as if his conversation were a chore before, and it would have turned him off of the whole affair if Glorfindel weren’t so Eru-damned _alluring_.

Well, if he wouldn’t talk about himself, perhaps Ecthelion could come at it from another direction.

He found out from others that Glorfindel was newly arrived from the East, that he had come with the former Lord of Imladris‘ retinue; but no one would say much more. He clearly liked wine and song, although the venues in which he sought them were never the ones Ecthelion liked to frequent, and seemed to change often (almost as soon as Ecthelion discovered them, in fact). Following him also revealed that even in peaceful Valinor, Glorfindel kept up his weapons skills—as one could easily discover by visiting a certain sparring-yard in the mornings. (Ecthelion reasoned that he’d neglected his lessons since coming of age, and obviously needed to observe more seasoned warriors at work in order to continue his education.)

It was common practice for those watching at the sidelines to call out encouragement and taunts to the participants. Ecthelion never did, too entranced with Glorfindel’s fluid movements and the fierce joy on his face, and the way his unbound hair caught the light.

At least, he never had _before_.

Ecthelion had never really troubled himself about his first life. They’d warned him it could be tricky; some remembered in tiny increments here and there, others all at once, but either way it could be disconcerting. Ecthelion had occasional flashes of deja vu, but they never resolved into anything more concrete, and he had gotten along fine without.

It was not the deja vu that bothered him this time. Glorfindel had tossed his head to shake the hair out of his eyes, flaring some spark of recognition—it wasn’t so strange. But then Ecthelion found himself opening his mouth, and before he quite knew what he was doing, he had shouted: “Tie back your hair, Sunshine, you’re embarrassing yourself!”

The other watchers laughed as usual, but Glorfindel stopped dead, nearly taking a hit before his sparring partner caught on and pulled back at the last second. He found Ecthelion among the crowd, and again there was that searching look. Ecthelion quailed under his gaze, but then Glorfindel smiled, as if there were no one else in the yard but the two of them. “ _There_ you are, Thel.”

And all at once, Ecthelion remembered.


End file.
